PPPPPPPPPPPPHHHHHHHHHHHH
by Loke Groundrunner
Summary: Oz eventually drinks a bottle of Pepto-Bismol and learns to play the guitar. Formerly known as Pandora Farts.
1. Chapter 1

This is a story that takes place in an imaginary kingdom called England.

There once was a young boy named Oz Vessalius. He was so named because his parents were fans of the HBO prison drama Oz (Even though HBO and television had not been invented yet). He was heir to the dukedom of Vessalius, as well as the heir to the Vessalius Tartar Sauce Fortune.

But much to the young duke-to-be's chagrin, he had now found himself in a crisis that neither his wealth, prestige or anime bangs could rescue him from.

The young man lay atop his bed, moaning in discomfort. Oz was in horrendous pain; he had eaten some of those funky, black-shelled tacos from Taco Bell the night before. There were so many pinto beans and chilies in those mothers that the boy felt like John Shaft was inside his gut, riding on the back of a winged dolphin, slaying pimps with his double-ended, triple-pronged, heat-seeking, zirconium-encrusted Trident of Justice. All to help his brother-man…

Oz clutched his stomach whilst contorting his face into a grimace that reflected his intense intestinal distress. "Ay… lo que es un terrible dolor de estomago…"

Oh right, I forgot to mention; the food had also been possessed by a demon named Old El Paso, who was now making his residence in Oz's cerebral cortex, causing him to sporadically speak in Spanish.

Hanging far above the pathetic excuse for an escritoire that sat in Oz's room was Gil. He had been cursed by a Voodoo priestess who had turned him into a plastic singing bass after he had angered her by stealing her prized Howlin' Wolf album, as well as a legendary gumbo recipe that had been PASSED DOWN THROUGH THE ARMSTRONG FAMILY LINE FOR GENERATIONS!

Um, anyway….

Gil had been watching this scene unfold in quiet consternation and could no longer keep his admonishments contained within the uncomfortable confines of his nonexistent rubber-plastic brain. He swiveled his rubber-plastic head ninety degrees in Oz's general direction and spake unto him in the voice of Marshall Mathers the following words in a rhythm that was written before cavemen invented stereos:

Tofu, get your white (censored) off'a that bed,

What'samatter wit' you, boy? Why you wanna be dead?

If you wanna someday cruise on them gold streets up in heaven,

You better do yourself a favor and buy some Pepto at 7-Eleven!

Oz sat up in his bed. Realization began to dawn on him like the morning sun as a choir of angels began to sing Shine On You Crazy Diamond by Pink Floyd.

"Madre de Dios…" Old El Paso said through Oz from his stronghold in Pergamum, which was the name he had given to the blonde boy's cortex.

Oz then remembered that he was an atheist, meaning that he didn't believe in such things as God, angels or Chuck Norris, so the choir stopped singing.

Just at that moment, a reasonable facsimile of Chuck Norris materialized in front of Oz, his eyebrows angry, his beard flaming and his nose amused. He began to bludgeon Oz into a bloody pulp with the third fist which was cleverly concealed beneath his fiery facewarmer.

Oz was in so much pain, he forgot about his cramps. He immediately gave his heart to Jesus and fifty bucks to the fake Chuck Norris, who then roundhouse kicked him as a sign of appreciation.

Oz flew through a wall. Pseudo Chuck Norris high-fived a guy who looked like Jesus. Oz became a five-points Calvinist. The angels sang on high.


	2. Chapter 2

Oz had made his way out into the courtyard of the Vessalius family manor, which was constructed from the remains of 731,000 recalled Toyotas and the cast of LOST. He was admiring the bushes which had been trimmed by the hand of Freddy Kruger. It was said among the people that if you studied the bushes long enough, one would learn the way that one was to die. Either that or you'd learn the horrible truth of why Fox cancelled Lie To Me (People were put into brownies).

Oz was studying a bush that resembled him eating a Lean Cuisine spinach Panini while reading a godless slashfic in which he and plastic bass-Gil were making out when a beast born from the very pit of hell jumped out from deep within the cavernous leafy canopy of bush-Oz's head.

It was Barney the Dinosaur.

Oz's eyes went wide with fear in that oh, so anime/manga-ish way. He farted from the shock of it all.

Barney than clapped his hands together and using the powers of alchemy revealed his unseen zipper which could only be seen by those who had obtained gnosis and had drank three cans of Red Bull during the Autmnal Equinox.

The theropod pulled down the zipper. Peeling away his purple, devilish exterior, he revealed his true form.

It was Tito from Rocket Power.

Tito ripped off the blue Hawaiian shirt he was wearing, revealing to the world at large his barrel-chested physique as well as his extremely large man-boobs.

"AS THE ANCIENT HAWAIIANS USED TO SAY," Said Tito, his voice booming like Mauna Loa, "IT'S TIME FOR A (BLEEP)KING!" (Tito had meant to say 'Kicking', but the censors were feeling particularly vindictive that day because he had morphed into a bear and had eaten their children and Manitoba.)

The hefty Hawaiian removed the garland from around his neck in a way that would dishonor the gods of his fathers and used it to strangle Oz as he kicked him in the gut repeatedly. This caused Oz to remember the intestinal distress he was in prior to his pwning earlier.

The brutalized boy, along with Old El Paso, released an atomic fart in a feeble attempt to annihilate Tito. Unfortunately for Oz, Tito had read A New Earth by Eckhart Tolle, which had given him Super Saiyan New Age Oprah Book Club Powers. Using these powers, Tito absorbed the energy of Oz's passed gas and added it unto his own.

Tito glowed with super-telestial power and then extended his moobs, which he used to whack Oz violently upside his cute little head.

When this was done, Tito floated skyward and held his hands aloft, channeling energy from Major League Baseball and the Archons. He put his hands together, preparing to unleash his final attack on Oz when suddenly Lonely Boy by The Black Keys began to play from nowhere.

Then, falling down from the clouds above was the ghost of Elliot Nightray, who was clad in flaming black pants and a red and gold luchador's mask. He drop-kicked Tito, which caused the corpulent cook's fat to jiggle in a most provocative way. Oz shuddered and reminded himself to spork his eyes out later.

After a few minutes of unnecessary fighting and overly-technical fight scene descriptions that the author felt too lazy to write out, Tito used his power to destroy Elliot's ghost. Once again, Tito began to try to kill Oz once more.

Raising up his hands, he channeled energy in his hands for nine turns. To combat this (and to show his dedication as a fan of Earthbound), Oz prayed vehemently for nine turns.

Tito's power was now OVER 9000!

However, Oz's prayer power was OVER 3,498,567,375,432,567!

The energy that Tito was channeling began to electrocute him and transmutate his flabby form. Tito fell down before Oz in the form of a dish of chicken and rice served with pineapple and red peppers in a savory sweet and sour sauce.

Oz ate Tito. Oz's stamina was increased by 3!

Oz's Uncle Oscar had been sitting nearby while all of these events were transpiring. He was too busy working a stand that served the local children Jesus Juice instead of lemonade to pay attention.


	3. Chapter 3

Oz's legs sang a sorrowful dirge as he settled down into the green park bench, which was in the park. He had been running for 3.57 hours from a murder of hormonally-driven, emo mosquitoes who were listening to Nirvana.

Oz was so tired that he didn't care that Aqualung was sitting in an adjacent bench nearby, eyeing him with bad intent.

The blonde boy sat there for several minutes in silent reverie, meditating on the meaning of existence and what kind of annelid meat they put into the McRib while he studied the dried-out carcass of a night crawler on the summer sidewalk. He was ever so rudely pulled from his ruminations by the sight of a pretty young girl in a black seifuku. She had dark black hair, dark black eyes and a soul that was blacker than that processed bean juice you bought this morning at that processed beanjuice pavilion named after the first mate of that boat with the weird name in that story about the crazy old Quaker who was hunting a whale with a funny name.

"Mind if I sit here?"

Deep within Oz's cerebral cortex, Old El Paso vocalized from within his stronghold in Pergamum, which was currently under siege by twelve legions of flaming angelic soldiers. "Sientate, chica bonita."

The girl giggled. "You sure have a way with the ladies, don't you?"

Oz nodded dumbly. Old El Paso was now being bound in chains of righteousness by the Commander of Heaven's Armies, so he was unable to speak for some vague, unexplained reason which was just explained. Kind of.

The girl sat down on the bench. She withdrew from under her blouse a notebook with the words "DUCTA PER DAEMONES" embossed on the cover. She also took a pen that blazed with hellfire from behind her right auditory organ.

"Would you care to see some of my works?" she asked whilst twirling her hair in a lame excuse to seduce Oz to go steal bran muffins with her. "They say that I am one _hell_ of an artist."

Oz nodded dumbly. Old El Paso was being led out of his ruined fortress in Pergamum by the flaming angelic legions. The Commander of Heaven's Armies led the captured Spanish devil through the streets of Pergamum in a military procession just to shame him. The millions of Ozs that lived there cheered that their ancient foe had been at last conquered by the word from the mouth the Holy One who now resided within Oz. Old El Paso was carried away to another region in the land of Ozmonia, waiting his final expulsion.

The girl opened her book. Oz could see that the ink was made from the blood of demons and the pages from the corpses of the last of the Pee Trees of Pizenheim. That was his first warning that ruination was on his merry way to harvest and punish the people of the earth for their crimes against treekind.

His second warning came in the form of the images that were contained within the pages of the damned tome; there were sparkling vampire-werewolf wizards making godless love to members of emo goff bands, cavemen drawn in the style of Picasso's later style were hunting a mammoth made from spare tires and an air duct, and a two-headed snake was devouring its tail while staring at a hand reaching into a can of pomade to name a few.

The girl turned a page as an evil song began to play from an evil, unseen band nearby. "I drew this one especially for you, Oz-kun~" she said, her voice dripping with honey, sexy and ill will.

Oz was so surprised and morally outraged at the foul image that he farted. In the Satanic scribbling, he was in a state of undress and was bound in chains made from the lyrics of a Barbara Streisand song. Cerberus was gnawing with each of his three mouths on Oz's right ankle. Alice stood nearby dressed in a deep blue flight attendant's suit. She was holding an extension cord and her eyes and face bore an expression of malice and mirth.

Oz screamed with his own voice as thousands of tiny blindness demons flew from the ink into his eyes, blinding him. The girl laughed evilly as the blind blonde boy staggered off of the park bench into a metaphorical Wilderness of Confusion. She was an agent of the Evil One, who intended to do everything in his power to stop Oz from reaching 7-Eleven and obtaining spiritual fullness.

The girl sat up from the park bench, smiling that her job was accomplished.

Aqualung stood up from his park bench, then morphed into a rocket that flew up into the sky and lodged itself into one of the moon's eyes. Aqualung then used his Darkling powers to possess the moon. The moon's face morphed into a broad, grinning Trollface.

The girl looked up at the moon, which was out in the middle of the day.

"It has been done, Master."

The Moon looked down and grinned.

"ME GUSTA!" It bellowed in a voice that caused the dinosaurs to go extinct.


	4. Chapter 4

Oz was deep within the recesses of his mind, wandering through the Desert of Confusion. It was the same desert that the legendary hero Jomer wandered through after consuming the Guatemalan Peppers of Insanity and drinking several cans of beer.

It was sunset. The cacti stood proudly as they bid Lord Frith farewell for the day. A group of tortoises ambled about amicably against the backdrop of the crimson and mauve canopy of the heavens.

Oz stood staring at his reflection in a black oily river in a quiet, anime-ish way. The wind blew in a way reminiscent of the wind that blew in LOST when it was time to warn you that a pointless flashback was coming.

Suddenly, the river coiled itself around Oz's torso and morphed into a long black snake with yellow diamond eyes. It opened its cavernous deathmaw and let out a deafening hiss as it prepared to swallow the boy whole and lick him just for good measure.

But before the cold-blooded mother-in-law of the desert could exact his vengeance upon Oz, a bright flame came shooting out of the sun. It rocked towards the serpent with blinding speed and then did transmogrify into a noble brown sagebrush jackrabbit whose body was covered with esoteric symbols drawn in white chalk.

The lagomorph extended his right paw, which was burning with a holy fire. "FALCON PAAAAAUUUUNNNNCH!" he proclaimed as he brought his fist down on the serpent's ghastly head. Upon impact, the snake exploded into a plethora of bioluminescent neon colors that randomly swirled about in a gyrating motion before crashing into the sands, their primordial energies returning to the earth that gave them birth.

Illogically, Oz was still alive.

He turned to face his rabbit savior and bowed with all the dignity and respect that an Anglo-Japanese lad could muster. "Thank you for saving me, Usagi-san." He spake this in his own voice since Old El Paso was disposed of for the time being, languishing in his chains in the bowels of Oz's bowels, awaiting the wrath of Judgment Day.

"I am your spirit guide, Oz," said the rabbit in a voice that sounded like Waylon Jennings. "I have come to lead you out of this desert and assist you in your journey to restore your eyesi—"

The word angels that were flying from the rabbit's lips could not complete their noble journey to Oz's ears. Lord Frith was very displeased at the direction this conversation was turning; he began to belch forth gaseous rays of heat and vengeance that were piloted by horned apes dressed in flame-retardant suits. They were playing noseflutes. The rays raced toward Oz and his guide with murderous rage.

The rabbit was struck by one of these vile bolts and roasted like a Christmas goose. As he lay there dying and sautéing in indescribable pain, he used the last of his strength to lay a midnight-blue Faberge egg encrusted with rubies and intricate gold latticework.

Oz deftly dodged a vengeance-ray and scooped up the sacred excretion and bit into it, savoring its crunchy, pearly exterior and its creamy, nougaty center. He allowed its lipids to explore the inmost nooks and crannies of his _lingua_ and seep down into the very core of his being.

He then sprouted wings on his back and took to the sky, soaring ever higher above the torrid, grainy sea of flour that was the Desert.

But he flew too high.

Frith, still reeling from the pangs of male menopause, spewed forth a death-bolt from deep within his nuclear core that was specifically prepared for Oz from before time began. It rocketed out from his hydrogen-helium shell and with the speed of Hermes did make collision with the neo-classical Icarus that was Oz. The horned ape laughed as it died.

Oz fell from the heavens as his Docetic form was consumed by the flames of death. He could smell cheeseburgers cooking.


	5. Chapter 5

Oz awoke to the sensation of someone suckling the emerald crystalline teats that were his eyes. From the corner of his eye, he could perceive that he was lying in a banana bin that reeked of beer, vomit and unconditional love.

Oz could see again!

No sh_, Sherlock.

After a moment, the suckler of Oz's eyes stood back from his handiwork. He was dressed in a green suit, a blue undershirt and a vest made from beaver fur. Upon his head stood a majestic, earthen-colored stovepipe hat. Hanging from his face was a replica of a trout mask.

He offered Oz a hand and led him out of the accursed bin while saying in a screechy, muffled drawl,"It's a good thing that Ah found you-ooo when Ah did."

Oz took in his surroundings; he seemed to be inside a giant wigwam of sorts. The walls were covered in decals and impressionist paintings, while Veteran's Day poppies bloomed from the floor. A chimpanzee in a diaper sat in a corner, studying Japan as it floated in a dishpan. A pig made of china cried quietly nearby with a fork sticking out of its back. In the center of the wigwam burned a fire whose kindling consisted of Beatle bones and smoking stones. The flames leaped and licked at the air like a hungry dog.

"Ah am the Sherriff of Hong Kong," said the trout-masked one as he fed ice cream to a three-beaked crow on his shoulder. "The Shaman of Pompadour Swamp, Doctor Dark if you-ooo'd please." He bowed theatrically.

The trout-masked one then led the boy to a table nearby the fire. They sat there for a time, lamenting about the current state of pop music while dining on cheeseburgers stolen from Paradise, salvation al a mode and a pie filled with hair. All while enjoying a cup of tea…

Oz farted his appreciation to the man for all of this.

Oz bid his friend farewell sometime later after the two of them had danced in a Hoodoo hoedown together. He made his way out of the front flap of the wigwam. He could smell Korean barbeque cooking in the distance.


	6. Chapter 6

Oz made his way up the tall mountains of the region known as Afghanorangutan, following after the seductive scent of barbecued meat-stuffs. He knew deep within the recesses of his cardiac muscle that he needed to go to 7-Eleven to get a bottle of Pepto, but his fleshly desires were pushing him further away from his goal.

He came to the top of a particular mountain, where there was a great and foreboding monastery. In ages past, it had been home to an exiled order of separatist monks that had once belonged to the Church of Pientology, until they were excommunicated for meditating while holding lemon meringue pies and wearing Speedos. At the same time…

The wind was howling violently up on the peak; snow swirled about Oz as if he were a salesman trapped within a snow globe filled with carnivorous telemarketers. Oz could hear the spirits of the ancient nomads who had died in that place ages before singing Khoomei in defiance of the elements.

Oz, having braved the primal forces of nature, pushed open the hoary doors of the monastery and entered therein, only to discover that it had all been a carefully calculated scheme.

At the navel of the central chamber kneeled Mister Worldly Wiseman, dressed in a black _gat _and a tan _dopo_. He was fanning the flames of the accursed Korean barbecue that had tempted Oz away from his path.

Adolescent, genetically-altered, shinobi tuataras stood behind each pillar, bearing katana forged from the fangs of emotionally distraught dragons made of refurbished sixth generation video game consoles.

As the youth took in his surroundings, a boy dressed in a jet-black kimono came out of the shadows nearby. He wore a brown paper bag with a black question mark ascribed on the front. He was playing a nostalgic tune on a mandolin.

"Ahhh~" he said in a laid-back voice. "Konnichiwa, Oz-chan~"

Oz's tongue was so metaphorically tied that he couldn't speak. Old El Paso laughed from within the comfortable confines of Oz's large intestine. He knew his time was short, but he couldn't help but laugh at his victim's coming suffering.

The bag-headed boy struck Oz across the forehead with his instrument, causing the Anglo-Japanese youth to be sent to a reunion with the oaken floor boards of the monastery, which he had never met.

Before unconsciousness came to greet him with her wide, all-consuming arms, he saw Cheshire crawling out of the shadows on all fours. He slinked up to Oz, rubbed his head fondly on the boy's left leg and purred gently.

Oz made a mental note to cut that leg off whenever he woke up.


	7. Chapter 7

Oz awoke to the smell of teen angst and ammonia. He was strapped down to a cold, unforgiving slab of a metal table in the nefarious torture-lab of a mad scientist who had been shunned by his friends in the scientific community because of his controversial opinions regarding the latent toxicity of Tic Tacs and Intelligent Design.

The youth was staring up into a bright torture lamp that hung above him until the table was most rudely uprighted by a sharp kick. Oz now was face-to-eye with a young man dressed in a black suit and a top hat. The boy's face was obscured behind an eyeball mask that possessed a blood-red iris that spiraled with primordial chaos as it flickered with images of stabbed ducks, Constantinople and blue rosebuds. He was petting a white cat wearing an eye patch.

"Do you know who I am?" asked the eyeball-man.

"No, should I?" asked Oz with all the charm of a British gentleman.

The eyeball-man gently placed his cat on the ground. He then removed his top hat and extracted a red Solo cup full of Wasabi peas from deep within. He held up the cup as if it were a red rabbit of torment.

The man then did throw his cupful of horseradish-encrusted legumes at Oz while proclaiming, "I'M ANDREW (Bleep)KING JACKSON!"

Oz smirked like a fox following the spicy downpour. "You expect to mentally break me, and with peas nonetheless?"

An evil anime-glint appeared in Eyeball-Man's eye. "No, Mr. Vessalius," quipped he as he removed his eyeball mask. "I expect you to _die_." He was now wearing an Andrew Jackson mask. He raised up his hands and said in a diabolical manner, "AVAUNT! AVAOUNT I SAY!"

Horrible-sounding ragtime music began to play from somewhere unseen. Old El Paso began to violently kick Oz's intestinal walls, adding to his crippling cramps that the author seems to have forgotten about for the past four chapters for no reason whatsoever.

The time for torture was to begin.

First, the ragtime music was replaced by a lively Venezuelan dance tune. Then, Faux-Jackson brought out a demonic dancing banana, which danced a devilish dance for five and one half hours. Oz was left on the brink of insanity. Plus, he had to pee.

After this was over, Lotti and Doug mysteriously jumped out from Oz's captor's buttocks and began to play their foul part in the goings-on. Doug taped Oz's eyes open, while Lotti inserted earbuds from a devilish iPod into Oz's auditory receptacles.

Doug held up an iPad, which contained the complete texts of soulless shell and My Immortal. Lotti pressed the play button of the devil's iPod and the vile sounds of My Chemical Romance, Nicki Minaj and Andrew Jackson Jihad began to resonate in Oz's ears from the black heart of the demon circuitry. He was forced to read and listen to these vile things for time immeasurable. The only way he could hold on to any remaining shred of his sanity was by singing hymns and Little Black Submarines in his mind.

Following this round of torture, Lily (Who had flown out from Faux-Jackson's nasal cavity) brought out a tin peened reindeer statue on a red leash. Lily pulled the reindeer's tail, causing it to open its mouth. It coughed out a toy monkey holding cymbals. The little toy clapped about merrily for several minutes. Then it opened its mouth and sprayed a cloud of purple knock-out gas in Oz's general direction.

Unconsciousness once again wrapped her wide, all-consuming arms around Oz as he passed out from the noxious odor of the indigo-scented fumes. His last conscious thought was about a baked pasta dish he ordered at Sbarro the week before.


	8. Chapter 8

Oz awoke from a terrifying dream in which he was dying a sad, sad death in the land of Equestria with a stake of holly through his heart and nopony gave a f_ck. He now found himself in a warehouse stocked with boxes filled with gaudy baubles and furniture sets from Pier 1 Imports. He was in the midst of an epic battle with Glen Baskerville, who was really Leo Baskerville, who was really Harry Potter.

Gleoharry was dressed in a pathetically stylish ensemble of a black suit, red necktie and a black velveteen top hat.

Oz wasn't wearing a shirt. Fangirls swooned.

Harryleo then made an arcane motion with his hands and caused an Enochian portal to break through the time-space continuum in his immediate vicinity. He greedily reached inside the screaming vortex and extracted a jet-black guitar that bore an obscene name inscribed upon its neck. Veins ran through the guitar, pulsating with the blood of celestial beings.

Equipping the ancient instrument, Glenleo began to channel his hatred for Oz, as well as his sexual frustration and general rage towards Capcom for cancelling Megaman Legends 3. His eyes became blood red and steam poured forth from his nose. The blood boiled within the guitar as Harryglen performed a solo that would have put even the combined forces of Van Halen and Orianthi to shame.

Dark energy rotated all 'round Leo the Harry and then flew skyward, transmogrifying into the beginnings of a demon storm of darkness.

Oz had to think quickly. His abdominal muscles began to shout conflicting advice to him as he debated his battle tactics within the war room of his brain.

Then, Oz had a vision. Jack Vessalius appeared, standing in a Greco-Roman garden. He was dressed in his white pimp suit with purple trim. He also was wearing a pimp hat, pimp socks and pimp shoes, complete with a pimp cane that had a blood-red pimpstone for a handle that contained the damned souls of the Super Pimps of Pimppalonica. He had a wench on each arm and leg.

The man who looked like Adult Link from Ocarina of Time extended a hand to his descendant and said unto to him:

"Use the Farts, Oz."

Realization dawned upon Oz like the morning sun as Shine On You Crazy Diamond by Pink Floyd played from deep within his agonized but redeemed spirit. He now knew what he must do.

Grabbing hold of his nose and his slightly-agonized abdomen, he summoned all of his willpower and fired a powerful atomic fart from the parrot rifle that was his navel. Old El Paso cried his feeble protests as he was carried away into the newly-born death cloud.

The pungent vapours floated skyward and fermented above Oz's head, transmutating into an airborne toxic event. Old El Paso was deconstructed and sent screaming headfirst into his eternal prison in the Abyss. The airborne toxic event then grew a face and swam towards the demon storm of darkness, swallowing it whole.

As the two masses mated with one another and confused their molecular makeup, they took the shape of a mighty stinkcicle and stabb'd their essence into Glen of Leo's instrument, taking possession of it. He was too enraptured in his playing to notice this happening.

Harry of the Glen of Leo continued to rock out as a sacred light shone forth from his damned instrument. The blood boiled to a fevered pitch and a foul odor seeped out of the guitar, engulfing its player.

Leo screamed as the vapors boiled his flesh away. His bones were reduced to dust that was meant to only be blown away in the wind, like all of the fleetingness of this mortal coil. The guitar fell lifelessly to the ground with a melodramatic thud.

Oz stood in triumph over the ashen layer of grime that was his fallen foe. He relished in his victory and bent over with intentions of taking the legendary instrument, when suddenly an army of crazed fangirls burst forth from the boxes all about him.

They descended upon the young man like a swarm of a million yaoi-obsessed locusts. They pinched him, they poked him, they pricked him, they kicked him, they asked him what his size was and if he really was a natural blonde. They grabbed him, they dabbed him, they took locks of his hair.

Jack smiled from across the void. He was pleased to see that chicks dug Oz, just as they had dug him in life. Someday, that boy would wear a pimp suit of his very own…

Just as it seemed that hope had died and that washed up celebrities who do infomercials because they've squandered their money and hope to make it back on dubious products would have their way, a bright yellow Gremlin came smashing through a nearby wall in a very Knight Rider-esque way.

The fangirls turned their attention away from the bishonen of their desires and fixed their godless stares upon the vehicle. The Gremlin then dissolved into a lemony ooze which reconstructed itself into three forms; Xerxes Break (aka, Kevin Regnard, aka Glenn Close), who was dressed in a suit that made him look like an effeminate George Washington, with a parrot rifle for a right arm; Ada Vessalius, dressed as Beatrix Kiddo from Kill Bill, complete with an equally nasty-looking katana and Vincent Nightray, who was encased inside his anime mecha, which was the very same one Squanto used to save the first thanksgiving from giant alien turkeys.

The fangirls let out a collective squeal and flocked towards the three newcomers, only to be mowed down by the spray of lead originating from the machine guns mounted on the arms of Vincent's mecha. George, uh… Break jumped into action with his parrot rifle-arm, finishing off whatever survivors remained, as well as those whose corpses had been stricken by the zombie demon.

Oz sighed in relief now that he was out of the woods. With friends like them, who needed enemies who would become your friends, who would become your enemies and then your friends again?

But just as the Tiger thought he was out of the Woods, one remaining fangirl jumped out from behind a box of neo-classical furniture. She was wielding a cursed talisman in the shape of a feline's paw, which she intended to use on Oz in order to transform him into a lion of love that would fart Platonic wisdom throughout the ages.

"Onii-chan! Get down!"

Ada sprang forth like an agile samurai jackrabbit. With a clean vertical slice, she removed the arm of the offending fangirl and proceeded to chop her into sashimi. After this was done, Ada bowed respectfully and bent over to taste some of her handiwork.

Oz stared at his friends, his eyes shimmering like he was in an anime (He was). He silently farted his thanks to them and bowed in appreciation.

Before jokes could be told and pleasantries exchanged like many unwanted Christmas gifts, Oz picked up the guitar, slung it across his back and wordlessly made his way out of the cursed factory as Money by Pink Floyd played in his mind.

Break, Ada and Vincent left to go rob a Subway.

Jabberwock ate Detroit. No one cared.


	9. Chapter 9

Oz was now outside of the foul warehouse. He was dressed in his white overcoat, which he had lovingly named Rick. He would've buttoned up Rick to conceal his abdomen from the prying eyes of fangirls, but Rick was in a particularly disagreeable mood that day.

Far away at the Nightray family's dental floss plantation, a group of fangirls sat clustered in the shelter of the glistening dental floss bushes and offered offerings of peppermint incense to Rick for his wisdom in that matter.

Oz stared up into the evening sky and beheld the multitude of stars, shining like the eyes of a million bloodthirsty werewolf attorneys. He felt as if he had slipped into a state of awe and reverence, that he had transcended the mundane world and was now walking upon the smoky skies with the Framer of the worlds...

And then he saw the Moon.

There it hung in all of its hideousness of existence, like a corpulent, deeply-entrenched bureaucrat waiting for his meal of greenbacks'n'souls at the Diner of the Damned. Its eyeballs glowed with yellow and red pinwheels of insanity that spun from within its accursed eye sockets.

Oz's eyes widened as he farted in anger.

"PROBLEM?" Shouted the Moon down from above. Its voice killed several angels.

Oz clutched his fists in rage. He knew now what he must do.

The Moon grinned. It was always grinning. "U MAD?"

Yes, Oz was mad. _Very _mad.

Oz grabbed his guitar and swung it dramatically from his back in slow motion. The guitar laughed manically. It was always laughing.

The Moon's orbs became wide with fear. Sensing the coming doom, it farted flaming snot out of its nose that fell to earth and transformed into a marauding horde of big eyed beans from Venus whose only desire was to steal Oz's wallet and force the boy to start in many a sordid kink fic.

They rushed toward him, wriggling their root-like appendages about and blinking their long-lashed eyes in a flirty manner.

Thinking quickly, Oz made an arcane snap of his fingers and summoned a pick made of lesser guitars from the screaming void. He then performed a power chord that belched forth a wave of sonic death that reduced the extraterrestrial Bush-products into smoldering piles of starch and aborted sexual harassment suits.

The Moon gasped. Chicago died.

Oz hardened his resolve and launched into a wild and epic guitar shred that cannot be described in words because if it was described in words, you would die. And Jack Vessalius would sleep with your mom, and then the planets would fly off into space and destroy Wal-Mart, making Paul Krugman a very happy man.

Oz channeled cosmic energy through his instrument as he thought of nothing but his intense hatred for the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame for inducting the Beastie Boys. His eyes turned blood red and smoke poured out from his ears, nose and mouth.

When this was done, he threw his pick to the heavens and opened his mouth. It fell in his mouth, causing him to fart forth a great rainbow that propelled him into the sky. The Moon was filled with fear now. It fired a group of Parrotheads out of its mouth, which was also its butt. Using its Darkling powers, it corrupted them completely and recruited them for its pointless war against Oz. The Parrotheads had been dining on the Moon's tongue, which was where Margaritaville was really located.

The heavy-set baby-boomers fell into the uppermost reaches of the atmosphere, where they morphed into flaming, screaming emo goff beings that had wasted their lives doing pretty much nothing. But Oz was ready. He set his fists aflame with his mind and punched the Parrotheads into depressed embers that sighed in deep regret for missing out on God's best for them.

Oz was now in space and his entire body burned with righteous flames. He flew towards the Moon, his every desire to finish his quest for vengeance. The Moon once again opened its buttmouth and coughed out a flock of flying books with pictures of Oz's many friends, co-workers and archfiends plastered across their covers made of cockroach corpses.

They crowded about him and squawked a foul cacophony, trying their best to lure Oz away into a nebulous world of pictures, pokes and pointless thumbs-ups. But Oz had only wrath in his mind. He farted and flying forth from his rainbow-spewing buttocks was John Shaft's double-ended, triple-pronged, heat-seeking, zirconium-encrusted Trident of Justice. He mentally called it into his right hand and twirled it in a stylish fashion. He then stabbed each book right in its attractive, anime-drawn face, turning them into rainbow confetti to be used at a retirement party for a Raisin-Man manager.

The Moon's eyes narrowed as Oz approached. A warp pipe appeared on its nose and Aqualung appeared from it, wearing his coat made from refurbished burlap sacks and a colander with horns. He stared at Oz with a look of hatred that would've killed a lesser bishonen and uttered the following Internet meme:

"WATASHI WA SHINEN… SHINENZUUUUUUUUU!"

Anyone else would've backed away by now, but not Oz. He was tired of being the silvery orb in a sadistic game of pinball played by an illiterate wizard. He was tired of being smacked about by the flippers of fate. It was time for him to create his own tomorrow.

The flaming young man extended his right hand and cried, "FARUKON PUNNNNNNCH!" He brought his fist into contact with Aqualung's face and the cosmos exploded into light. Aqualung let forth a moaning death-scream as he was consumed by the avenging photons. Following this, he was dissolved into a pile of ceramic dust, which was to be used in creating yet another brick for Oz's wall.

The moon then exploded into a million screaming pieces that rained down, killing everything on the earth. Oz surveyed his handiwork and sighed contentedly.

Then the sun appeared. In the sun was a great Pedobear seal that featured the picture of a winking Isla Yura.

Oz had acquired a new target.

He flew into the sun and punched the piss out of it. As the sun tried to catch its breath, three silver decals appeared before Oz. He licked each one. He then kicked the sun in its nonexistent groin and grabbed it by the nonexistent scruff of its neck and threw it down onto the ruined earth, baking it on OVER 9000 degrees until dark brown.

Oz played Layla until the stars turned cold.

Now he would never get any pudding.


	10. Chapter 10

Oz stepped onto the boarding platform of the Gravy Train Station. He had just returned from his business trip to Pretty Much Nothing, where he had discussed all manner of tartar sauce-related business with his man-carrot business compatriots. His soul was feeling angsty and jet-lagged from dodging the numerous amorous advances that the man-carrots had tossed at him with their leafy headdresses.

Suddenly, Oz could feel his abdominal muscles screaming at him to duck for cover. He was more than pleased to oblige them. He threw his sexy self down on the boarding platform just as an inscrutable soaring projectile whizzed past where his head once was. Spying with his inner eye, Oz could perceive that the object was an orb made from the remains of several copies of _Rolling Stone _and evangelical vegetables.

The young man looked port and saw a herd of Somali cannonpigs charging right at him, their illustrious hides glowing with migraine-inducing red phosphorescence.

They were the last of the cannonpigs, whose home on the moon had been raped and pillaged by wealthy industrialists and unceremoniously destroyed by Oz. They had once frolicked merrily in their paper mache gardens, where in times long past they had sucked construction paper fleas off of their lightbulb-smooth bodies, dug up cardboard truffles with their diamond-porcelain hooves and spat objects at one another during mating season.

But all of those pleasant memories had been snuffed out like a campfire that a hobo had urinated on. The only desire that now existed in the savory swine's mental collective was to turn Oz into a lip-smacking dish of Mu Shu Pork and to then listen to each and every one of his classic rock albums, just to scorn him.

Oz pulled himself up off of the boarding platform. He then tore off Rick and his pants and threw them to the ground in a very neat pile that would make your mother proud of you. He then reached into his black hole underwear and extracted his guitar. He quickly shredded a tune of Middle Eastern origin and filled himself with cosmic energy. After this, he sauntered up to his clothes and farted the energy upon them.

The gas seeped into the intricate fabric weave and transmutated the fibers, compelling them to undergo a most shocking metamorphosis. Within moments, the clothes had taken the form of a great steam engine born from the very pits of hell itself: it was jet-black with a blood-colored aura permeating its entire being; it had two machine guns sticking out of each side of its cars, its tires were covered in gold-plated spikes, its coal car was loaded with ready-to-fire grenade launchers. It was driven by an unemployed walrus that had just dropped out of his local community college and was feeling emotionally distraught about his failed career opportunity. But that wasn't all; the train had a snarling face on its front engine and a name inscribed along the passenger car:

VIN DIESEL

Oz hopped atop the passenger car and stared at his porcine foes squarely in their rage-filled spheres. He then launched into a death metal riff that caused the train's eyes to glow with devilish fire. Steam billowed forth from the train's nostrils and chimney-hole as it charged forward like a mighty stallion of yore. The engine's whistle sounded with the screams of a million harpies; it sang of the coming desolation of both man and pigkind.

In a feeble attempt to stop the train, the cannonpigs simultaneously fired orbs of garbage from deep within their cannonsnouts as a mournful Celtic lament played in their minds. The old puff horse's billowing smoke-product took the shape of a magic dragon that laughed contemptuously as the projectiles harmlessly bounced off of its hardened acrylic enamel shell. The train plowed forward in its senseless bloodrage as it proclaimed in a heaven-rending voice, "IT'S TIME TO GRIND YOU LITTLE (BLEEP)ERS UP INTO SHREDDED BEEF!"

(Vin Diesel had meant to say 'porkers' or something more derogatory, but the censors were angry because they found a severed digit in their minestrone that day).

At the sound of its voice, the hellspawned locomotive's cowcatcher of ruination came alive with infernal intensity. It wasn't really a cowcatcher seeing as how it was made out of lasers, but it was still a cowcatcher anyways.

Then, with the force of 500,001 inebriated Garchomps, Vin Diesel collided into the marauding swine and sent their bloodied and mutilated corpses flying into the past so that they ended up at a Southern politician's kiss-up picnic in the 1850s and were served as pulled pork sandwiches as a young boy played Soldier's Joy on his fiddle, ladies and gentlemen.

Meanwhile in the bleak present, Vin Diesel fired its machine guns and killed everyone else at the Gravy Train Station for absolutely no reason at all.

Oz surveyed the carnage all about him in both past and future present as he stood on the passenger car's roof; his mind swirled with mixed emotions of rapture and melancholy at the demise of his porcine persecutors.

Before he could begin to host an internal debate with himself regarding the morality of his actions, the Anglo-Japanese lad heard a vocalization that turned his blood into icicles.

"Oz-kun~ Look at what I've drawn for you~"

Oz spun clockwise and beheld the demon-wench who had turned him aside in his quest for spiritual fullness and Pepto-Bismol. She held up her damned notebook, which was opened to a page that moaned with the voice of every damned soul in hell. Whatever ink was on the page burned with crackling hellfire luminosity as blindness demons swarmed from the flaming _melan _towards the emerald ice chips that were Oz's eyes.

Oz's orbs turned blood-red as hatred made its dwelling in every fiber of his being. The powers of darkness had kept their cold, oppressive grasp upon him like a merciless music industry mogul for far too long. The time had come for him to break his chains and ride off into the primrose sunset upon the back of a noble tin horse powered by social conservatism.

The day of ruination was now at hand.

Steam blew forth from Oz's nostrils as he played a chord on his guitar, a chord which struck the blindness demons dead and opened up a nexus made of Hello Kitty memorabilia.

Oz's bloody orbs glowed with infernal holiness as his fingers morphed into guitar-shredding gods that called forth from the portal his groinsaw, which resided in a damned realm known only as New Jersey. Oz relished in the roar of the logging implement as it flew through the air, cutting through the girl's waist like a hot knife of reason through butter of ignorance.

His tormenter fell to the ground in two pieces; her eyes glowed with the multifaceted lights of a Rubik's Cube. She opened her mouth and out flew a column of devil-smoke that rose upwards and returned to its home in the frozen tundra of Southern California, where it would comfortably lie in wait for a new host inside its igloo made from discarded Arnold Schwarzenegger films.

Oz stared at the ruined corpse of his fallen foe with distress. He realized that he hadn't eaten any pirozhki in quite some time.


	11. Chapter 11

Oz made his way across a plethora of landscapes and famous photographs as Wish You Were Here by Pink Floyd played in the background. He had his pants upon his legs, Rick upon his torso and his guitar upon his back. He was eating a beef and mushroom pirozhok. His guitar was eating one, too.

After what had seemed to be time immemorial, Oz had once again found himself in the park where he had been led astray so long ago. He wandered about aimlessly for a time, farting a salsa beat until he lighted upon a certain place where was a park bench that was affixed in front of a small pond. So he sitteth himself down there and readeth _The Pilgrim's Progress _whilst listening to the smooth sounds of Radio Moscow, which were played by the millions of Ozs that dwelled inside his gray matter.

As Oz was reflecting upon the sad state of the Man of Despair who was trapped forever within his Iron Cage of Bondage, he glimpsed upward from the Jacobean text and witnessed an equally disturbing image. A narwhal made out of toilet paper was being pursued by a hipster riding on a dinghy that was shouting various vulgarities.

The hipster held a gleaming ebony spork-harpoon above his head, which he planned to use in order to pierce the papery heart of the Quilted Northern cetacean as an act of vengeance for eating his beloved Foster the People album.

Acrimony made its dwelling in Oz as he witnessed this scene. How much longer must he slough through the despond that was existence, searching for that which eluded him so? How many more years would he allow the combined forces of evil, NPR and MTV to dog him around?

Frustrated, Oz let forth a quasi-atomic fart from his bum, which set him flying across the pond. He performed a flawless triple Salchow in midair shortly before making a perfect landing in the hipster's dinghy. On the shore, a panel of judges unanimously gave him a 9.8 for his skill.

Oz now did stand in the dinghy and beheld with his grass-colored orbs his foe. The hipster had long, shaggy brown hair that looked like an old carpet sitting on a curb that a Doberman had urinated upon. Above his girlish lips grew a dense handlebar mustache, just like the one a hipster would wear to an art school party. He was wearing a pair of thick eyeglasses with black frames that he had bought at LensCrafters for half-off, as well as a pair of leg-constricting skinny jeans and a yellow V-neck T-shirt that bore the following slogan printed in recycled green ink:

VOTE FOR PEDRO

Oz withdrew his guitar from his back, preparing to swing it straight through the well-educated, environmentally-conscious liberal neck of the hipster, when suddenly the hipster's moustache twitched. It then shot out like a negative remark at a cocktail party and wrapped itself 'round about Oz's sexy, bishonen Anglo-Japanese neck, trying to choke the life out of him.

The guitar fell to the deck of the dinghy as Oz struggled to break himself free from the hairy vines that had encompassed his headstem. The hipster laughed savagely, holding aloft his spork-harpoon in his right hand, while he stroked his mustache with his left.

"You can't stop me, daddio," said the hipster's mustache, its voice as smooth as ice shaved by a knife made from a jazz station disk jockey. The hipster was snapping his left big toe rhymically as it spoke. "This whale is mine and nobody's gonna stand—"

Just then, the toilet paper narwhal charged its way through the steely headwaters and speared the hipster upon its jagged toothpick horn. A shower of crimson pelted the narwhal's fatty head as the hipster's mustache screamed in agony, for it could feel the life of its host being drained away by vampires of disappointment.

Oz's eyes went wide as he studied the shattered eyeglasses of the hipster, laying inert on the deck like the broken dreams of an impoverished potato farmer, covered in gory postmodernism. It served as a powerful reminder to always buy organic, children.


	12. Chapter 12

Oz bent over to pick up his instrument so that he could rescue it from a meaningless world filled with blood splatter and Al Gore. Slinging it across his Rick-clothed back, he turned to face his papery friend the narwhal, to whom he owed a life-debt. He smiled, silently farting his thanks to the Cottonelle whale-thing for rescuing him.

The whale stared at the youth with its glassy marble eyes, its yellow Union Jack pupils becoming wide with acknowledgement. The phantasm of a smile appeared 'cross its fatty lips as a deep vocalization rumbled from within the beast's throat and escaped as word angels out of places unseen.

"OZ VESSALIUS," boomed the Terrence Stamp-like voice of the narwhal. "I AM THAT WHICH YOU HAVE SOUGHT FOR SO LONG."

Oz farted in shock as his eyes went wide once more. His eyes farted, too.

The tree-product whale opened wide the toothy cavern that was its cavernous maw, beckoning the young man to tread into its dark recesses.

"ENTER THEREIN AND TAKE THINE PRIZE, YOUNG DUKE."

Oz slowly stepped upon the Twizzler-colored road that was the narwhal's tongue and made his way down into the danky chasm that was the whale's mouth. As the young man ventured further down the fleshy path he trod, he was overcome by the overcoming stench of licorice and LSD. He then passed a table where Walter Bishop and Hurley were doing bong hits. Then, Oz's leaf-hued orbs espied a large door made of birch that stood beneath the disco ball uvula at the very back of the throat-hole.

Once he was standing right before the door, Oz performed a dynamic entry upon it and uncovered a new room! It was a dull, sterile white and the walls were covered with advertisements featuring provocatively-dressed anorexic models in sensual poses wearing clothing made in Sri Lankan sweatshops. Oz shut his eyes in order to dodge their pouty stare-daggers and ran down the red carpet, leading to yet another door that was much larger than the previous one.

In a corner in the room, a washed-up television personality wept in sorrow due to her ruined career.

Having made his way to the door at the end of the room, the young man possessed himself with a spirit of Chuck Norrisism and delivered unto the door a devastating roundhouse kick that reduced it to splinters.

Oz stepped through the ruined wooden threshold and entered a dankly lit room where a dwarf-sized clown sat by a glowing golden hot spring, eating a piece of cornbread and crying tears of sorrow as he reflected on how he had been unfriended by the Bearded Lady. A mandrill of depression sat upon the dwarf's shoulders. He was texting the Bearded Lady and was checking his Facebook status for the 3,000 time that hour. A Screaming Hairy Armadillo wearing a bowler hat sat nearby, laughing at the sight of it all.

Oz ignored the freaks and walked down the small marble footpath that led to the _aurum_-colored pool. He could feel the overpowering urge to soak his wearied frame in the sacred waters coming upon him, but before he could so much as place a foot in the glistening, amaranthine pool, he saw something shuffling through the water towards him in a lethargic manner.

It was a platypus. Wearing a pimp suit.

Oz looked down and felt nothing but utter contempt towards the sharply-dressed monotreme that was staring up at him with its beady little coal pellet eyes. He also felt unbridled hatred towards NPR for having boring announcers.

Oz's eyes then morphed into murderous Redcoats of rage as he whipped forth his guitar and prepared to set loose a shred that would have opened up a flaming nexus point leading to the very bowels of Tartarus itself. But before the youth could engage in this morally-ambiguous act, the platypus spoke.

"Hey boy," spake the Duckbilled One in his pimp voice, smoother than silk weaved by the salivary glands of deceitful silkworms, "why you wanna kill me?"

The Anglo-Japanese youth stood dumbfounded for a moment, searching his wrinkled sponge-mass for a suitable excuse for his wrathful feelings.

He came up empty.

Oz then dropped onto his kneeparts in despair and let slip his guitar from his sexy fingers, who were busy debating amongst themselves which one was the sexiest.

Tears filled the young man's money-colored spheres as he could feel hordes of depression demons ascending from hell, crapping their negativity upon his wheaty crown. The fell beasts swarmed 'round about Oz's head like millions of gangbanging mosquitoes circling a Sodium Vapor streetlamp in a gang war, leaving him enshrouded in a veil of darkness and economic uncertainty.

The platypus squatted in silent consternation as it observed this scene. Somewhere deep within the mottled suet pudding that was its mammalian-reptilian-avian brain, it reasoned to itself that it was time to formulate a plan in order to stick it to the man.

Such a plan was immediately birthed when the Screaming Hairy Armadillo (who was really the United Church of Canada in disguise) ran forward from his alcove of mirth and pants jokes and NOM'd 'pon the fatty beaver flapjack that was the platypus pimp's tail. The platypus' electroreceptors in the bill exploded in a wave of funkiness as its eyes glowed with brilliant phosphorescence and a most startling metamorphosis occurred.

The platypus turned into Youngblood Priest.

Blaxploitation music began to play as the main character from the film _Super Fly _opened his mouth and with great Oreck force sucked in the swarming mass of depression demons that plagued Oz. Oz blinked like a dumb ox as he stared in wide-eyed amazement at the pimp standing before him, an aura of pimpitude emanating from his every pimpish inch.

As soon had Oz pulled himself up from the marble footpath, Priest began to double over as the demons threw a frat party within him. The combined power of their drunken carousing, poorly designed imitation togas and terrible White Castle armpit stench caused yet another profound transformation to take place.

Youngblood Priest had morphed into the scraggly visage of Aqualung.

Oz's nose farted in horror at the sight of his archfiend, who was slowly inching towards him like an inchworm of vulgarity. Various WWE entrance songs and the opening guitar riff from Aqualung played in the background, seeing as they had killed in a most violent fashion the funky tunes that had been playing earlier.

Then, a vision appeared. It was Jack Vessalius, clad in his leopard-skin loincloth, trapped inside a prefab plasticized jungle located seventy-five inches beneath Provo. Lacie was with him, clad in a leotard made from endangered species that no one cared about because they couldn't eat them. Jack called to Oz as he shot a leopard made from beer cans straight through the heart with his spear made of discarded handguns.

"Oz, you must rock the eff out."

Oz nodded nobly. He set loose a fart which transmogrified into a yellowish gas hand that flew forth and grabbed hold of the guitar which he had come to love as a son. The guitar flew into Oz's sexy hands and he preceded to RAWK as no mortal had ever RAWK'D before or after. Channeling cosmic energy and his intense hatred at Fox for cancelling Terra Nova into his instrument, Oz jousted forward and stabb'd Aqualung straight through his blackened heart of wickedness, leaving the head stock and the neck of the guitar imbedded in the devious old sot's chest cavity.

Aqualung cast his orbs upon the damned instrument. His mouth hung agape and let forth a baneful death-scream. He fell to his knees, eyes flickering with pure whiteness as his body crackled with electrical currents that told of the fall of the great American Empire that had been built upon the back of a fat man riding a traitorous flesh-eating kangaroo with diabetes who was eating a Big Mac.

Oz's brain-camera snapped an eye-photo of his fallen foe for posterity. The lad crossed his arms and laughed.

"I have slain thee, O Aqualung! Thee and thy four and twenty satellites have been cleav'd unto the earth by the power of the Great Eternal!"

The notorious pervert spat out a piece of his broken luck and chuckled darkly.

"Do ye think ye have beaten me, boy?"

Like clay molded by the hands of a devilish potter, Aqualung's face transformed into the smirking visage of Oz himself. He laughed evilly.

"Ye cannot destroy me! Thou art me and I am thou!"

In one final act of vengeance, Aqualung expanded outward and exploded into a laughing and brilliant ball of perverted gaseous vengeance that sent Oz flying through fat air like a bottle rocket filled with angsting writers who were down their luck due to the fact they had lost all of their income at the louse races and now found themselves addicted to cheap thrills and depression pills.

The infernal radiance engulfed the immediate area and destroyed all in its path.

The clown choked to death on his cornbread as the light swallowed him up.

The Screaming Hairy Armadillo's body was devoured by the devilish brilliance, for he had died of a broken heart because he had become irrelevant to society.

The mandrill of depression danced jovially as the pipes sounded, but his mirth was short-lived. He too was greeted by the eternal embrace of the light of oblivion.


	13. Chapter 13

Oz awoke beneath the leafy canopy of a nerdcore beech tree that was rapping a complicated criticism of string theory and listening to Simple Song by The Shins at the same time. The youth was happy that he had woken up, for he had been trapped in a horrible dream in which he was reading a high school fic while his flesh was being ripped by weasels that had been egged on by sin-happy tourists who had overrun Cape Cod.

After shaking off the last remnants of that awful subconscious visitation, the young duke lifted himself up from his grassy bed and caught glimpse of a scene that caused his eyes to birth a downpour of vinegar tear babies of disgust that would normally form when one listened to the musical works of Katy Perry.

The narwhal lay beached upon the shore of the crystalline pool, resting upon its papery left flank as toilet paper rolls and copies of _The Hunger Games _leaked forth from a deep laceration that ran like a drunken streaker down the length of its ventral side.

Certainly, this proved that the narwhal was not as strong as the leading quilted brand of his species.

Oz's legs carried him to the side of his fallen friend, his eyes misting like spray bottles of sorrow upon African violets of joy. He fell to his knees in despair, the locks of his grassy eye-canals bursting forth a deluge of salty sorrow over the loss of his dear friend.

The narwhal gazed upon Oz with one of its faded-paper eyeballs, its heart becoming full of compassion and hot sauce towards the weeping young man.

"DON'T CRY FOR ME, FRENCH GUIANA," said the whale-thing in the voice of Liam Neeson as tears glazed over its eyes like frosting over fried eggs. "FOR YOUR JOURNEY IS NOW AT ITS END."

The wound on the whale's stomach grew brilliant with transcendent radiance as its entire body became swallowed up in a grotesque aura of heavenly light that caused the creature's form to resemble a large cosmic egg that would give birth to the salvation of all men and a new universe that knew not of the sting of death or the bitterness of sorrow.

Oz wiped his leaking eye-faucets, and transfixed his eye-yolks upon the egg as his mouth hung agape in reverent shock. The great oval hovered above the ground as twin rainbow halos gyrated about it chaotically. All the choirs of heaven sang for joy on that most blessed of days.

From his eternal confinement in the Abyss, Old El Paso screamed for naught, for he knew that the consummation of Oz's quest was nigh.

The rainbow halos broke free from the surly gravity well of the universal elliptical and writhed about in the heavens like undulating kelp in the evening tide. With graceful forcefulness, the prism-born serpents of the solar federation plunged into the egg and caused it to fall to the earth, where it began to pulse with golden waves of awesome.

Suddenly, a shape burst forth from the recycled tree-shell. It was the stereotypical representation of your local 7-Eleven, complete with a stuffed dumpster on the right-hand side and a passed-out drunk lying near the front door, clutching a bottle of Southern Comfort as he dreamed of the bygone days of his youth.

For what seemed to be the millionth time, Oz's eyes became wide in shock. He stood up, Tebowed a quick prayer of thanksgiving and made his way to his destiny. He thought about Blackmore's Night.


	14. Chapter 14

Oz tentatively stepped over the festering form of the slumbering, inebriated man who lay like a roadblock of rage along his highway to heaven. The young man stood in silent awe as the hydraulics of the doors of the convenience mart opened with a gentle wooshing sound, beckoning his entry as if they were the very gates of _ouranos_ itself.

Oz walked into the store. His ears were greeted by the sounds of processed meatsticks screaming in agony as they lay roasting in their own lard beneath the heat of a devilish sunlamp inside an interrogatorroaster sitting on the checkout counter nearby. Not far from the cruel device was a rack filled with magazines of a questionable nature, featuring hideous models made out of bottle caps covered with fortune cookie-esque aphorisms and possessing hair made out of week-old angel hair. Styled like Farrah Fawcett. The damned periodicals bore such enlightening titles as _Grapico Girls_, _Bottlecap Babes, Rusted Wenches _and _Jones Soda_.

Oz's pond scum-colored spheres scanned the length of the concrete box laced with copper veins that he had found himself standing in, searching for the medicine aisle, where he knew in his cardiac muscle that he would find the bottle of Pepto-Bismol which would slay his crampdragons, which the author had conveniently ignored for the vast majority of this mental scribbling.

After what had seemed to be the length of time that it takes to find an honest man, Oz's brain webcams espied a sign hanging above an aisle way. It was suspended from the ceiling on ropes made from clippings of Chuck Norris' beard and printed on it were the following words written in Cooper Black font, made of lasers:

AISLE 7

ILLEGAL DRUGS

Oz took note of this fact, as well as the fact that the words "IL", which preceded the word "LEGAL", were crossed out. The hydralics of the wrinkled gray lowrider that was his brain bounced in his skull like a drunken Mexican bean worm, commanding his legpistons to pump their sexy way over there.

Oz was about to start moving when a man came crashing through a nearby wall with the force of a thousand rabid Justin Bieber fans kickin' in da backseat of a black Trans Am of love. He stood 5'4, weighed 200 pounds and was covered from head to hoof in newspapers. His face was concealed beneath a triangular-shaped head mask and a pair of dark sunglasses, because he was ugly, didn't pay his taxes and had small, girlish hands. He also had a shoe-sniffing fetish and enjoyed torturing pork chops and Surf Nazi larvae, just to hear them scream.

He was being pursued by a quartet of devilish exterminators, clad in hazmat suits made of aluminum foil with blue-shaded heads and deep purple visors filled with swirling smoke and mist. In their hands, they held flamethrowers, which were connected via plastic tubes to tanks filled with Worchestershire sauce. From deep within their damned helmets came foul vocalizations that sounded like a rusted saxophone with a broken reed being played by a fat man with a goatee.

The man clad in newsprint turned around to face his foes, only to be sent to the ground by a crudely-drawn bolt of electricity that emanated from one of the exterminator's flamethrowers. The metal men stood in smug triumph over their fallen quarry as they loosed the serpents of fire from their weaponry and reduced the man to a twisted bonfire of smoldering ash and propaganda.

Oz observed this scene in muted moral outrage as he thumbed through one of the bottle cap magazines on the counter. He was only reading it for the articles, mind you.

The exterminators honked and warbled amongst themselves, pointing their flamethrowers at Oz in the form of a silent threat. Oz immediately dropped his magazine and felt consternation overcome him as he could feel his cramps coming upon him once more. Had Old El Paso broken free from his hoary chains of bondage in the Abyss to haunt Oz's bowels with his foul presence once more? Or was there something more insidious on the horizon?

Despite his great pain, Oz knew he had to think quickly, for he had no desire to join the man of the newsprint in the torched wasteland, where there is only gloom and darkness and the food tastes like crap.

Oz prayed from the bottom of his heart!

"Please grant me strength!"

Suddenly, Oz's cramps became even more gut-wrenchingly painful then they already were. He began to dance the Chicken Dance while the disembodied voice of the destroyed ghost of Elliot Nightray berated Oz for some reason from his moonbase, which was located in the left nostril of Rufus Barma's ridiculously-undersized anime nose. Oz then did do the Macarena and several Zumba moves before he performed a breakdance which left his butt pointing straight towards the visors of the silently impressed devil exterminators, who still had their flamethrowers trained on the lad.

The forces of hell had long prepared themselves for their final onslaught against Oz, but they had forgotten to factor one little detail into their nefarious plans.

Oz had the power of the farts on his side.

"FUS RO DAH!"

At this cry, Oz fired forth a sonic fart that knocked back the exterminators into a shelf full of human beef jerky. The bags of peppery meatstuff rained upon them as they watched in horror through their mistvisors as a cloud of gas wafted up before them, grew brilliant with infernal brightness and took the form of their doom.

Hovering in midair was John Shaft, dressed in his jacket made from the skins of fallen pimps. He was riding 'pon the back of a winged dolphin, brandishing his double-ended, triple-pronged, heat-seeking, zirconium-encrusted Trident of Justice. Hatred was burning in his eyes like a flambé made of pimps who had fallen by the prongs of his Trident.

Shaft twirled his Trident as his theme began to play. The exterminators stood to their metallic feet and prepared to fire their fiery sauceproduct at the private detective of African-American descent, who was well-known among a vast majority of the female population for his amorous ways.

They didn't get the chance.

The dolphin squealed in bloodlust as it flew forward. Shaft drove his steely Trident through an exterminator's visor, killing it instantly. He then jumped off the dolphin, dropkicked an exterminator and stabbed it in the gut, causing the fiend to fall to its knees and let out a satisfying death gurgle as its visor flashed in neon colors before being shattering into a million, insignificant pieces.

One of the exterminators was crawling away from the fracas in a feeble attempt to escape from the carnage at hand. He was speared on Shaft's Trident, who had sought out the exterminator's heat and brought its notlife to an inglorious end. The dolphin set himself upon the last exterminator, slapping it silly with his flippers before stabbing it through its heart with his bottlenose and then blasting it into oblivion with a blazing blubbery blast from his blowhole.

Oz's mouth hung agape as his gray lowrider took in the sheer epic bloodiness of the moment. His abdominal muscles began to converse amongst themselves.

"I've heard that cat's dolphin's one bad mother—"

"SHUT YO MOUTH!"

"Hey, I was just talkin' 'bout the dolphin…"

"Oh, we can dig it."

Oz went over to the interrogatorroaster to get a meatstick. He looked down. He saw a sticky puddle that smelled of blood and Vapor Rub. He bit off the screaming head of the meatstick and chewed thoughtfully. He thought about how Surf Nazis must die, preferably shot through the heart by Leroy's Mama with a spear gun laced with haikus and innuendos while being held in place by Surf Ninjas.


	15. Chapter 15

Oz was still staring at the sticky puddle, debating whether or not he should bend both knee and leg in order to lick of the faded pool of liquids past when he saw something that caught his attention. Shaft, the Trident and the dolphin had set a mummy's rotted corpse ablaze with frickfire and were roasting the remains of the devilish exterminators on skewers made of toothpicks made of leprechauns fighting killer bees whose heads contained the consciousness of Sephiroth as they flew forth from their honey holes in the Dutch East Indies, blasting Obama beams out of their mouths that flew into the planet of Texas, killing the eff out of everything as their wings buzzed a bittersweet symphony to the blood red skies set aflame by the fire-spitting brassiere of Ada Vessalius.

Oz walked over to where the trio sat clustered around the fire like culinary cavemen of yore, hoping that he would be able to partake of the barbecued meatstuffs that they were cooking. Sadly, however, he was refused on the grounds that he was white, supported the Labour Party and smelled like an RPG with skanky female characters.

Crestfallen, the young man returned to where he was standing previously. He continued to stare at the sticky wicket of a spot and gnaw away at his meatstick, stopping every now and then to dig a piece of cartilage out of his teeth, for it was a cartilage and tofu meatstick.

After a time, Oz bit down on something that was both hard and soft at the same time. Horrified, he spat the object out of his mouth in disgust, mistakenly believing it to be an eyeball, a gorgon head or some drunken booby singing of mortal life's fleeting precipice. However, his emerald ocular orbs could see that the object was nonesuch of that cock and bollocks; rather, what he saw laying face-up in the sanguine and Vicks-scented notcircle was a publication with a photo of Reim Lunettes on the cover, winking and spanking himself whilst he was dressed as a panda.

Oz was ready to avert his eyes in self-righteous religiosity, when he saw that both puddle and periodical began to crackle with blue bolts of electricity, coursing with power like some crazy neon gospel monkfish. The two objects began to shimmer with rainbow watercolors as they flew up to Oz's midchest, became enveloped in one another, made a rockabilly sound and fell into Oz's hands in the form of a bottle of Pepto-Bismol glowing with golden aviator southern rock radiance.

Oz cast his orbs upon the sacred bottle. His sexy fingers moaned in ecstasy. The little men inside his head danced the hornpipe. A heavenly choir sang on high, only to be stabbed to death with the dirty faces of Delta blues angels.

THAT WHICH MY HEART HAS LONGED FOR…

Oz held the bottle aloft and bit its head right off. The part which he had bitten off bit down on his tongue. Infuriated, Oz opened his mouth and tried to pull the bottle top off of his tongue. It wouldn't relent! Oz's eyes became red with bloodrage as he unleashed an extragalatic fart which caused a mutant hemorrhoid to shoot out from his bum and bite the bottle top which was biting his tongue. It ripped the plastic foe off with its daggerteeth and spat it into the flaming mummyfire nearby, where it exploded into fireworks that destroyed the European Union. John Shaft, his Trident and the dolphin clapped like they were at a golf game.

ALL THAT MY SOUL HAS DESIRED…

The growling hemorrhoid returned from whence it came. Oz studied the wounded bottle. A pink fountain of bismuth blood pulsated from its neck injury and sang of unrequited love.

IS RIGHT IN THIS MOMENT.

Oz raised up his bottle. Just as he nearly placed his lips on its gushing wound, a hissing pink smoke wafted from the frickfire and dirtily swayed to and fro before him like a drunken dwarf Chippendales dancer who was a member of the Klan and lived in a trailer park owned by Jerry Springer.

A form then materialized. It was Alice, dressed in her usual ensemble, complete with white stripper go-go boots. Her hands were upon her hips; her eyes were blazing like a country music Jesus, who had come again to inflict His righteous vengeance upon the apostate pop country establishment. On her forehead stood an anime vein swollen in rage, having a look in its eyes as if it were to jump out and strangle Oz right where he stood.

"Oz, you are my manservant!" she barkbellowed in a voice that shook the heavens and the earth and killed several prep penguins in Berkeley, who died when their too-tight yoga pants cut off their circulation because they were too busy looking at their precious cell phones to give a crap. "You're not supposed to go on quests unless I give you permission to do so!"

Oz was too busy sucking the Pepto bottle's wound vampiricly to give Alice any heed. His spirit sang for joy as the antacid bismuth product slid down his esophagus and eventually found its way into his intestines, where the crampires who had harassed him for so long became acquainted with the hatchet of a certain vampire-killing president and the frickfire-encased fists of Harry Potter as Blacula nodded his approval at the scene of wanton carnage. Bodies were punched in half. Heads flew through neighbor's windows. Harry found a shilling. The heavens rained blood and fire.

Satisfied at this outcome, Oz's mutant hemorrhoid wiped his mouth and he threw the emptied vessel to the floor, causing it to explode in green alchemical fires filled with screaming and random Jethro Tull songs.

Alice was PMSing the whole time.

"Oz! Are you even listening to me?"

Oz's soulwindows were now busy studying the enigmatic algorithms that were Alice's legs, attempting to understand the deepest inner workings of the universe and perhaps divine the meaning of existence.

The girl whose facial geometry superficially resembled that of a mammal belonging to the order Lagomorpha cracked like a hardened piece of dinosaur poo. She flexed a leg, which was made of equations, and kicked Oz squarely in his face with the force of the fist of an angry god.

Oz flew back in a poor imitation of bullet time, the bone and cartilage levee that was his nose spewing forth a bloody spray of viscera as he fell to the floor with a melodramatic thud. He moaned in a mind-boggling combination of pain and pleasure.

As he lay on the 7-Eleven's floor somewhere between heaven and New Jersey, he could see in his mind's eye Rufus Barma in his pimpoffice, fanning himself with his pimpfan as he sat at his pimpdesk, pimplaughing as plastic bass-Gil screamed for Oz whilst singing a dinky synthesized version of Take Me To The River as Vincent and Echo made out on a gecko's eyelid.

A crow wearing black sunglasses and smoking a cigarette flew past the window behind the man who vaguely resembled Kratos Aurion from Tales of Symphonia. It cackled in a loud voice:

"Fifteen acts have passed; one more remains."

Oz smiled. His nose continued to gush. He giggled.


	16. Chapter 16

Gilbert was in a dark room, standing amidst the muffled ebony shades like a seaweed-headed facsimile of Carmen Sandiego as he smoked a cigarette. At one end of the room, Will of the Abyss stood playing blues rock on a jet-black guitar that bore an obscene name inscribed upon its neck and possessed veins that pulsed with the blood of celestial beings. At the other, Sharon sat playing a lively melody on a harpsichord with keys made of bullets made of elephants made of bullets.

The Man in the Not-Yellow Hat could hear the mournfully-seductive melody of the hoary-haired whore's guitar calling to him, calling him away to her bedchamber where the desire of the Dark Minstrel of the North would be fulfilled through the twain's consumption of melted cheese-product while sitting at the side of a blazing Zoroastrian symbol of truth and righteousness. He could also hear the merry trilling of the music angels coming forth from the leaden-ivory-mahogany casket that was the caramel-haired girl with cranberry eyes' instrument, enticing him to come ride with her forever through glistening strawberry fields that did not exist on the back of a unicorn with hooves made of yellow submarines, a body made of kaleidoscope eyes, a resplendent mane that sparkled in the evening sun with diamonds and a horn made of recycled mojo filters and Ono sideboards.

Even though it felt as if his genius was being torn asunder by the twin harmonies, Gilbert ignored their lies. He dug his toeroots into the blackened floor and affixed his victory-colored grapes upon the smoking iris of the eyeball-colored stick that was entangled in the pedals of his palm's flower. The delta of his forehead's veins became furrowed in consternation as he witnessed in the flaming embers a series of disturbing visions that left him with an expression of pure hammy horror that can only be described as Baltarian.

Gilbert saw himself trapped in the body of a plastic singing fish, espousing sophistic wisdom to Oz, who was beleaguered by cramps born of the very pits of hell. He stood transfixed for ages on end, watching as his master embarked upon a lonely madman's quest in search of a shining planet known as Earth, I mean, a shining bottle known as Pepe, that ancient and holy receptacle that housed the pink fluid of his salvation.

Gilbert watched in rage as the stupid rabbit kicked his dear master in the face and left him to die and sauté in his own blood like a raw slab of brisket. As Gil seethed silently in the sultry somber shadows, he saw with his spheres the springing forth of a supernatural situation. The pool of blood surrounding Oz's head turned into a field of blue roses, which turned into a flock of blue butterflies that devoured Oz's breathless corpse and flew to heaven, where they transformed into Oz wearing a white robe and a crown of victory, for he had at last completed all of his trials. He marched down the golden avenue as every bell in the sweet land of Beulah tolled in joy.

And then the cigarette burned out and the visions stopped.

Gilbert shook his head and sighed. "I need to buy a better brand."

He threw the cigarette at a wall using the middle finger and thumb of his left hand. The thud resounded through the ages.


End file.
